


Dear Heart, It's Me

by magicboxofoddities



Category: Lost Girl (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, mentions of dybo but no more than that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29967084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicboxofoddities/pseuds/magicboxofoddities
Summary: It’s not that he sees her in a new light or anything – she looks as she usually does, and she’s always been beautiful, always been … bright. A constant; a compass needle pointing him in the right direction. He chastises himself for never understanding what it meant before.(a collection of soulmate!au oneshots, to be updated when inspiration strikes; ratings/tags/etc may change.)
Relationships: Dyson/Kenzi (Lost Girl)
Kudos: 8





	Dear Heart, It's Me

**Author's Note:**

> i'm reliving an old obsession, i got a neat little list of soulmate aus in my neat little raccoon hands, i'm ready to go nuts. all of this is self-indulgent garbage. you have been warned.

**#1 - NAMES:** when you find out your soulmate's full name, it will appear on your skin.

_It's what's engraved upon my heart  
In letters deeply worn  
Today, I somehow understand the reason I was born  
\- Fair by The Amazing Devil_

**_i._ **

_That girl worries me, you know_ , he’d said to Bo, early on in their relationship, and he meant it. He wasn’t a fan of humans to begin with – short lives bread impulsivity and irresponsibility, evident in Kenzi’s every action, and he was only waiting for the other shoe to drop on that front. He reserved himself the good foresight to be annoyed in advance about the inevitable damage control that would fall to him when she fucked up and spilled – but despite his best façade of disapproval, continuously on display when it came to her, she never did. Quite the contrary – if anything, she seemed to be excited to be a part of something; and eager to keep their secrets, as long as she was being included. Loyal to Bo to a fault, right from the start – and over time, to him too; to Hale, to Trick. She’d wormed her way into their lives and it made his skin crawl in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

When he’d grudgingly accepted her confidentiality, his disapproval shifted from _security issues_ to _concerns about Bo_ – besides the fact that getting attached to humans never worked out well in the long run, Kenzi had a specific penchant for trouble that could put Bo in danger. Hell, that _had_ put Bo, him, and not to mention herself, in danger more than once. She was a liability, in his eyes – whatever wit, wisdom, or skills she brought to the table were nothing compared to her fragility. She made Bo vulnerable, and they couldn’t afford that; he knew that the human’s inevitable death would destroy her. The heavy feeling that spread in his chest at the mere consideration of this was, surely, sympathy pain for the love of his life – if it felt this _unbearable_ to him, he could only imagine what she would go through, and it made him vow to keep his distance from Kenzi just a little bit more, just in case. He didn’t expect her to become such a fixture in their lives – but as he would discover was usual for her, she’d proved them all wrong.

As much as he tried telling himself he was only putting up with her for Bo’s sake – there was _something_ drawing him back to the human again and again. Keeping an eye on her was prudent, he was sure; a lingering suspicion was his only motivation, definitely. He might admit to some curiosity; even amusement, perhaps, at most. But not care, never that; no worry beyond the superficial.

(Not that hollowing fear that her light might go out, one day.)

> – You’ll stay with me, though, right?
> 
> _You bet. I’m not going anywhere._
> 
> – Promise?
> 
> _Promise._

That girl was an enigma. Try as he might to find _something_ on her – he wasn’t even sure what for, truth be told – leverage? Security? Proof of existence before she walked into their world and wrapped their hearts around her little finger? – it was nearly impossible. Asking her for her full name was almost like starting a drinking game – she’d come up with names and stories so ridiculous that they already became frustratingly plausible again; _if you believe, take a shot_. But any play at sincerity caused laughter and changed topics. If she even had her own wallet with any valid ID, he’d never seen it. Attempting to track down any of the friends, family, or acquaintances she called in favors with for various cases lead to nothing but dead ends, although she’d teased him more than once about apparently enjoying the chase, hinting that if he wanted some answers, all he had to do was ask the right questions. _Direct_ ones were not, alas, what she had in mind for that. Running her prints brought up nothing, and _that_ , now, that was an impressive feat. She’d gone through some length, it seemed, to erase herself from the official side of human existence. It made him ever more curious, and while he knew he should let it lie and accept her secrecy – she never told him to stop looking, and almost seemed to derive a sort of fond amusement from his futile attempts.

Sometimes – when he wasn’t in a particularly charitable mood and couldn’t shake her off his mind, no matter how much he tried – it made him feel like a dog begging for scraps. He made an effort to avoid her, then; asking Bo to his place, or leaving at the crack of dawn if they did end up at the clubhouse after all. He couldn’t quite skip the Dal altogether – Trick would get antsy and concerned, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good – but he discovered soon enough that keeping Kenzi busy with pool and paying her nightly tab let him get away with his aloofness unquestioned. (At least until she was sober again.) But then hungover Kenzi, when treated with graciously donated caffeine, was the most likely to throw him a bone – another obscure factoid about herself, her teenage years, her life _outside_ of the craziness that was their world – and he felt pacified enough to forgive her for the feelings she didn’t even know she stirred in him.

They’d developed a sort of balance between casual friend-of-a-friendly banter and reliable partnership, and even when things with Bo got _rocky_ , to put it mildly, he knew he could count on Kenzi – to have his back, to keep the peace, and to keep their little group not just together, but happy and healthy – by whatever human power the fates had bestowed her with. She called it _friendship_. He thought it must be something magic.

> _You are weak, pathetic, and you need glasses._
> 
> – Oh wow, that’s kinda mean.
> 
> _It’s a miracle you survived this long, Kenz. You just might be the strongest person I have ever met._

She’d saved him, time and time again – his life, his love, his sanity – and at some point, _surprise_ had become _affection_ had become … _reliance_. (It was the safest word to settle on, he thought, and didn’t consider the emotion any further.) He looked for her in every crowd; expected her to be there even when Bo wasn’t. For drinks, for pool or darts (he couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t at the Dal scamming him out of his not-so-hard-earned money). For morning coffees (far too early in the day, she’d complain, until he started paying for hers, too) and movie nights (because according to her, his pop culture knowledge was _way_ out of date) and late-night ride alongs (to supposedly entertain him on his ‘mind-numbingly boring human job’ when Bo was busy and the crack shack was too loud to sleep at).

(The irony that the little thief’s preferred place to crash was the passenger’s seat of a cop car was not lost on him, but he’d rather have her safe with him than alone somewhere else. It was taking care of a friend; that was all.)

Kenzi was … _Kenzi_. He knew enough – she let him know enough – to take care of her like she always took care of him; of all of them. And still, there was something – something missing; something he desperately needed to know, although he couldn’t quite articulate the right question. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, despite never having caught the first one – it was an odd sensation.

* * *

**_ii._ **

Eventually, he gets the hint he’s been waiting for, although not from her. They’ve been going through the archives, digging through missing persons reports from the past twenty years for a (human) case neither of them could care less about, when Tamsin suddenly exclaims: “Jeez, is that Kenzi?” He holds out his hand for the file, and is met with a picture of Kenzi, but smaller; not just in age and stature, but also in presence. It clues him in to a piece of her past more than the parents’ statement would. His eyes scan over the report quickly anyways, briefly considering if he should tuck this away just in case, when his brain catches up with his eyes and the name at the top of the sheet registers. _Mackenzie Malikov_. Something inside of him clicks into place; a tension he’s never even noticed he carried suddenly dissipates. He can practically feel the silvery, scar-like imprint on his hip shape into a readable name.

The impossibility of it all shocks him into silence. He never thought this would happen – had resigned himself to the fact that, even though his feelings for Bo had simmered down to a familiar affection, he’d lost his chance. Soulmate situations with succubae sometimes turned out that way, with no clear mark of the match – or matches – but he’d been so sure it was her, nonetheless.

He'd been fascinated with Bo the moment he met her; had fancied himself in love already after that first, searing kiss. It had felt like she’d taken part of his soul, and he’d been all to happy to finally give it – give all of it – to the point he’d given it _away_ to save her. He couldn’t feel it himself, then, but by the look in her eyes, he imagined that the heartbreak he saw there spoke for itself. What he remembered most from this episode of (comparatively brief) lovelessness was not Bo’s hurt, though – and even if he’d cared, at the time; it mattered as little as Ciara’s affections or Hale’s judgments, in the end – it was Kenzi. Kenzi’s anger; Kenzi’s curse. Kenzi continuing to barrel her way into his life even though he’d done his damnedest to keep her – and by association Bo – out of his business. Kenzi bullying him – both verbally and physically – into fighting for himself; and when that turned out to be as dead an end as he expected, taking things into her own hands. Kenzi, holding his love; returning the best part of him, as she’d said.

 _A thief never just gives things away, though_ ; even then he thought her sticky fingers must’ve nicked a part of it, because something was different. _Felt_ different. He fought for Bo, because he thought that was the way it should be; because he thought he owed it to Kenzi, for going through all this trouble for his sake. Surprisingly (or maybe not) enough, though, his heart wasn’t quite in it.

Throughout it all, Kenzi had been there, supportive as ever; and since the beginning, never a word to suggest …

> _When you need help, you can find me at the 39 th division._
> 
> (He’d been so preoccupied with Bo at the time, he’d barely spared Kenzi another glance when she snatched the card from his hand – the card with his number and full name on it.
> 
> He can’t even recall her reaction.
> 
> It makes his stomach turn.)

When he sighs, eyes squeezed shut in a futile attempt to temper his self-directed frustration, Tamsin clears her throat. “Earth to Dyson. Do we do something about this?”

She knows just as well that Kenzi is off the grid for a reason, and can guess it has something to do with what the file implies, but doesn’t mention. As amused as she seems by the picture, she won’t risk her friend’s safety over it – and Dyson finds himself with a surprising regard for the valkyrie at that. He snaps the folder shut and clears his throat. “I’ll go drop this off. Can you finish up here?”

He’s out the door before she has a chance to answer.

* * *

**_iii._ **

The clubhouse is unlocked, as per usual – no matter how often it bites them in the ass, the girls always expect cases or company (at least when they’re present) – so Dyson doesn’t bother knocking, but he does make an effort to step heavily on the creaking floorboards to announce his entrance. Kenzi had once chewed him out for ‘sneaking up on her’ by simply walking in, which had caused her to hurl a bowl of fruit loops at his head in surprise. He’s learned his lesson, now, but isn’t sure that’s going to save him from being threatened with ceramics once again, today.

Not that she’d be wrong to throw something at his face; he definitely deserves it.

His sense of smell tells him Bo must be out, and when he steps into the living room, he finds Kenzi swiveling on a bar stool, clearly bored with whatever research is spread out on the counter; but at his approach she comes to a quick halt by hooking the heel of her boot into the footrest. “D-Man! What’s up?”

He can’t help the bemused grin at her wobbly gait when she moves towards him for a hug, and he meets her halfway, not letting go of her arms even after the greeting. Her questioning look goes unanswered, because he needs a moment to take her in.

(It’s not that he sees her in a new light or anything – she looks as she usually does, and she’s always been beautiful, always been … _bright_. A constant; a compass needle pointing him in the right direction. He chastises himself for never understanding what it meant before.)

Although the dizzy spell from her spinning seems to have passed, he gently guides her to lean against the back of the couch before letting go, however reluctantly; then removes the file from the inside of his jacket. “I found this in the archives today.”

“Okay. Now you’re freaking me out just a teensy little bit,” she answers with a teasing grin, making it out to be a joke – but he can detect the nervousness in her voice; has grown attuned to the shifts in her tone over the years. He hands her the folder, and she seems both afraid of and already resigned to what she might find.

She studies the report for a moment in silence, and he can see by the way her jaw sets when she considers the ramifications of his knowledge. Another beat, then she snaps her carefully neutral expression into a bright smile he can see right through. It pains him, to see her pretend, to _him_ of all people, but when he tries to reach for her she waves the folder in his face and quickly steps away. “Thanks for dropping this off!”

“Kenzi.” He attempts to sound placating in the face of her chipper façade.

“That _really_ shouldn’t be lying around a police station. Isn’t that time-barred, anyways? You guys need to spring-clean this shit, sheesh.”

“Kenzi.”

“Don’t worry about it, D, I’ve got it covered. Just … pretend you never saw this. Let’s not make a big deal– We don’t have to talk about–” Her voice trails off as she circles around the room, looking for a quick way to dispose of the report in the most efficient way. Eventually, she settles on ripping it twice and stuffing it into the fireplace, then strikes a match with shaking fingers. By the time she comes up from her crouch, he’s behind her, standing so close he can feel her shudder, but before she has a chance to flee again, he holds her to him – hands on her hips, the one resting over the place where her mark must mirror his own giving a light squeeze. She freezes immediately.

“Mackenzie Malikov,” he says, testing the name out loud for the first time. It’s engraved on his skin and on his heart, and he’ll carry it with him, forever – but it doesn’t seem right, somehow. “ _Kenzi_ ,” he whispers, like a devotional, and she finally relaxes against him. He rests his head on top of hers, breathes in her scent – a little cold, a little bitter, but underlaid with the resinous smell of sunflowers – although he’s already committed it to memory a long, long time ago.

She stops fidgeting and lays her hands over his – not taking them, but not pushing him away, either – and takes a deep breath to steel herself. “So.” The word hangs in the air for a moment. “You know about _that_ , then.” It’s no longer queasiness about her past that drives her – _that_ denoting the realization that she is, after all, his soulmate, too, something she had apparently taken great pains to _not find out_ for as long as possible – but he can’t account for the defeat in her voice, and it makes him frown. He tries to turn her around, to look into her eyes and divine where this upset stems from, to make her see the _dedication_ in his own, but her grip on his hands tightens and she steadfastly keeps her back to him. He can smell a faint hint of tears forming, and it hits him then–

 _She thinks he’ll reject her._ She thinks this is pity; a kind let-down, but a let-down nonetheless.

Because wolves mate for life, and he’d said that so often, _too often in her presence_ , but always about the wrong person, it seems.

_That’s why she never said anything. That’s why she never says his name._

He curses softly to himself and presses a kiss to the back of her head. “Kenzi. Please, _please_ look at me.”

Something in his voice must have gotten through her internal spiraling, because slowly, reluctantly, she turns in his arms. Her piercing blue gaze is stubbornly directed at his clavicle. After gently brushing his knuckles over her cheek, he tilts up her chin.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner.”

She scoffs, but there’s neither real anger nor humor in it. Her eyes briefly flick into the direction of Bo’s room. “Yeah, well, can’t really fault you for that, can I?”

 _You can and you should_ , he thinks, but the fact that she _doesn’t_ breaks him a little inside. He leans forward until his forehead rests against hers, holding her gaze, trying to make her understand; to see the evidence of what he’s saying, what he’s _feeling_ in his eyes.

“I know I haven’t loved you like you deserve. But you’ve always been my heart, Kenzi. I’m sorry I’ve been too _dim_ to figure this out before now, but if you give me the chance, I’ll prove it to you for the rest of our lives.”

She’s silent for a moment, watching him contemplatively; but whatever conclusion she comes to, it makes a smile tug at her lips, and he’s never been more grateful for another sight in his life. “Look at you, being all sappy,” she says, her hands taking hold of his lapels as she draws herself up onto her tiptoes; the grin spreading on her face must mirror his own. He meets her halfway and when he finally, _finally_ feels her lips on his, it’s like coming home.

The soft hesitancy of their kiss doesn’t hold out for long; his arms around her press her to him, though she makes no more turns to move away. If the tenacity with which she holds onto his shoulders is any indication, she, too, feels this urgency to be as close as possible, as if it could make up for all the time spent apart. He starts trailing soft kisses down her throat – to her collar – her shoulder – back up her neck – to the sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her giggle. All the while she murmurs his name, almost like a prayer – _Dyson, Dyson, Dyson_ – it might just be his new favorite sound, and he wants to make her scream it to the heavens till she’s hoarse. His lips find hers again, but more insistently this time; there’s a heat building now, and when her fingers slip into his hair, nails digging against his scalp, he can’t suppress a low moan. With a swift motion, he picks her up – her lithe frame barely weighing anything, but he can feel the strength in her legs when she crosses them around his hips – and moves them forwards, aiming for the doorway upstairs but hitting the wall next to it in his rush instead. A couple of picture frames rattle on the frail plaster; one falls, but thankfully doesn’t break, and Kenzi _snorts_ in his arms. (The noise has its charm, misplaced as he finds it.)

They break apart for air, and as she hides her face in the crook of his neck, giddy laughter overcomes her – and it’s contagious. Still chuckling, he kisses the side of her head, his hands ghosting along her back, over her arms and shoulders, unwilling to let go – but eventually, she leans back and grins up at him. “We’re both pretty stupid, huh?”

“Oh, definitely,” he replies, reluctantly setting her down but not moving back another inch. “For a start, we should have been doing this _ages_ ago.” She chuckles again (he thinks he wants to spend the rest of eternity making her this happy) but when he leans in to kiss her again, she puts a hand on his chest to stall him.

“Pump the breaks, my furry friend.” Despite her smile, she sighs. “There’s a metric _shitton_ of things to consider here, so–”

“So we’ll figure this out. _Together_.” He raises his right hand between them, little finger outstretched. “Deal?”

She links her pinky with his.

“Deal.”


End file.
